


If I Could Trade His Life For Mine

by fangirlingingeneralidk



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Being An Idiot, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M, Grief/Mourning, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Self-Sacrifice, history is a pain, research is awful, seriously he needs to stop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlingingeneralidk/pseuds/fangirlingingeneralidk
Summary: The Hamiltons can't recover from Philip's death. Alex thinks he has a solution. What could go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

At his wife’s scream of anguish, Alexander closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see his son’s small, too-still, bloody body. The hand he clutched in his was already getting cold.

 

Philip Hamilton was dead, and it was his father’s fault.

 

After an eternity of sitting silently, Alexander released Philip’s hand and stood. He placed his hand tentatively on Eliza’s shoulder, and for the first time since that cursed pamphlet, she didn’t shrug it off. She leaned into him, sobbing, and he felt his own tears fall faster in response.

 

He extended the hand not on her shoulder and waited. After a moment Eliza wiped at her face and stood on her own, ignoring his wordless offer of help. He tried not to let her rejection sting, but he knew he deserved it.

 

It should be him on the ground instead.

 

He wanted to hold Eliza, to comfort her and to prove to himself that there were some good things left in his life, but there was no way she would accept that. Not after everything he’d done. He couldn’t blame her. He probably hated himself more than she did.

 

How could he have messed everything up so spectacularly? Was he completely incapable of having a normal happy life? Everything had been going so well before… Before Maria.

 

So he didn’t hold Eliza, though it pained him to see her walk away from him. He didn’t have the right to be hurt.

 

The grieving couple moved uptown. The loss tore them apart even as it pulled them closer together. Alexander knew every time Eliza looked at him she saw only Philip. But over time the rough edges of the hole of where their son should be would smooth. The jaggedness of the loss would dull to an ache in the back of their minds.

 

Even Eliza would eventually forgive him. He vowed to do his best to never need to earn his way back into her good graces again. He would be good. He would prove himself to her. He would make himself worthy of her. He would force himself to deserve her. It would never be enough.

 

Alexander withdrew from politics for the most part, but he knew Burr harbored resentment for the election results. He just couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

Nothing mattered anymore. They were broken, both of them. And finally Alexander saw the truth: Eliza needed Philip more than she needed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, Alexander had always been one for research. He dug into the deepest parts of the libraries, delved into tomes thick with dust and smelling of forbidden knowledge. He immersed himself in secrets and sacrifices and spells, enchantments and exchanges, monsters and miracles.

And it was all for naught, because nothing he tried worked, and Eliza still looked at him with hollow eyes as she watched him clean the remnants of his latest experiment. He wouldn't tell her what he was up to, and he hated that she must assume he was back at work again. He hadn't even opened a newspaper in months. Every waking moment was devoted to this project, and there were far more waking moments than otherwise.

The bags under his eyes grew along with the stack of books he'd read through. Nothing was helping, until one day he read of a ritual he had not come across before.

Alexander walked to the nearest crossroads. He looked around. Nobody in sight. He crouched and buried the prepared materials. He looked around again.

Still nobody. He sighed, unsurprised. Nothing else had worked; why would this? He turned to go back to the too-quiet house, when he heard behind him a voice.

"Going so soon?"

Alexander spun around. A woman stood in the street, right next to where he'd buried the summoning charm. "It worked," he breathed. He'd just about lost hope, and this was the last option he'd found- but it had worked. "Thank goodness."

"Goodness," she smirked, "had nothing to do with it."

"Do you have the power to-"

"To bring him back? Yes."

He swallowed. "Do it, then. Whatever it takes."

"Are you su-" she started to ask, but he stepped forward with a dangerous gleam in his bloodshot eyes, and she stopped.

"Do. It."

She laughed, and for a moment her eyes were totally black. "Well, isn't that cute. You don't scare me, sweetie. I've seen things you can't imagine. Or… not yet. One day I suppose you'll see for yourself. That's the deal, you know."

"The deal," Alexander repeated. "What are the terms?"

"Ten years," she told him. "If you agree to this, I will give you your son again, and you get ten years of life together. Then I send the hellhounds for your soul. Are you ready to go to hell?"

"I'm already there." His voice was a rasp. "So how do we make this official? Do I just say deal, or shake hands, or…?"

"Precious," she cooed, closing the distance between them. "Everyone knows the best way to seal a demon deal is with a kiss."

She leaned in, but he stepped back, shaking his head. "Not again," he said hoarsely. "Never."

The demon pouted. "You're no fun." But she held out her hand.

He took it; it was cold. He wet his lips in an automatic response to nerves. But he wouldn't back down. He never could do that, hadn't done it in many years. That was most of his problem.

But he would do this for Eliza, and for Philip. He wasn't acting out of self-interest, for once. The Democratic-Republicans might have been right about him. But he would prove them wrong right now. He grasped the cold hand that was too similar to Philip's.

He shook her hand. She laughed. "See you in hell," she said, and then she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Alexander trudged home. The repercussions of what he had just done echoed through his mind, but he couldn't make himself pay attention to that compared to the warm yellow feeling in his chest at the thought of seeing Philip again.

He pictured Eliza's face when she saw their beautiful son restored to them. How would he explain this to her? His mind raced.

But he needn't have feared. By the time he got home, it was clear the demon had done more than he had expected. The book had led him to believe Philip would basically rise from the grave and have to dig himself out and find his way to them in their new home. Instead Philip was, inexplicably, waiting for Alexander by the front door.

"Pa!" he called. "Mom was looking for you, says you're late for dinner again!"

Alexander blinked. It couldn't be. But Philip was still there.

"Tell- tell your mother I'll be right there," he said, dazed. Philip went into the house to find Eliza. When he was gone, Alexander whispered, "Thank you."

Alexander entered and house and was greeted by the most welcome sight in his entire life: his wife's smile.

"Alex, come in, have a seat. The children are waiting for you. Where have you been?"

He stammered something incoherently. There was no room for speech in his brain, not when he was seeing his Eliza again, the woman he'd married 22 years ago. He had courted her for only 3 weeks before asking for her hand. And they'd lasted for so long… Until his stupid mistake with Maria.

But the demon had really helped him out. This was the best deal he could possibly have gotten. Eliza appeared to have forgiven the affair, Philip was with them, and Alexander would have ten whole years with his happy, whole family.

At the table, Eliza cleared her throat and looked up from her plate. "Everyone, I have an announcement to make. Children, your mother is going to have another baby!"

She beamed at them all. Alexander felt like he'd been punched, and he had been in enough fights to know. He was stunned. But when he met eyes with his amazing, perfect, _pregnant_ wife, his smile was uncontainable.

_Yes_ , he thought. _This was worth it._


	4. Chapter 4

Life returned to what passed for normal. Alexander, no longer having reason to grieve, resumed his political work. He was careful, though, to neglect his family no more. He had only ten years with them left. He knew he had to make that a lifetime.

Still, there were worse things than dying at 55. Dying at 19, for example. So he would make the most of it. He would control how his family and country remembered him. He had advance warning of his own death; how many could say that?

Alexander preferred to think of it as a work schedule. A deadline, he'd thought once, and then regretted it. It wasn't a joking matter. Still, if it had been, it would be a good one.

Ten years. 365,000 days to create his legacy.

Those who didn't know his reasons - ie., everyone - marveled at the vigor with which he devoted himself to the formation of the country. He'd always been passionate, but now, with a definite end in mind, he worked like the Devil himself was on his tail. No one suspected it was because he was.

Alexander wrote more, talked more, fought more. The Jefferson presidency gave him plenty to oppose. The repealing of the whiskey tax in April prompted dozens of vehement papers. The Louisiana Purchase made him smug. The Marbury vs Madison court case held the interest of every lawyer in the country, and none more so than Alexander Hamilton.

He was a hurricane of productivity, and such people always attract unwanted attention.

Aaron Burr was watching. The vice president of the United States, but he couldn't be satisfied with that; he had nearly been president and he blamed Hamilton for his loss. Quite right, too. Everyone knew it was because of his influence that Thomas Jefferson had won. And Burr was determined to make Alexander pay for his meddling.

Alexander never could back down from a fight.

July 11, 1804. Dawn at Weehawken. The duel of two men, two guns, and one fatal shot.

But no one knew that yet.

Alexander was tired. He'd been working nonstop for two years. He had another eight years left before his deal expired, along with him, and he wanted to milk every second on this earth. Yet he couldn't turn down the challenge to a duel. So he crossed the river that misty morning, pushed his glasses up, thought longingly of Eliza waiting in bed for his return, loaded his gun, looked Burr in the eye, and -

He saw the face of the first friend he'd made in this country. Alexander had not entered this duel planning to shoot to kill; last night, he'd announced his intention to throw away his fire. And surely Aaron couldn't be angry enough to do anything but the same.

So Alexander walked his ten paces, turned around, and lifted his gun.

Several things happened so quickly it was difficult to follow the sequence. A gun went off. There were loud noises and pain and another gunshot, not necessarily in that order. Everything was rather scrambled. Things went light for Alexander, then dark, and then it was all gone.

He wasn't dead. But he was dying.

He was vaguely aware of crossing the river again. He spoke like a man running out of time, a man desperate to get his life's worth of speech into his last moments. Moments and events blurred together. He was at someone's house, and there was Eliza, and Angelica, and other people who couldn't be there - Washington and his mother and Laurens, and they were calling to him… He spoke faster; he had to get everything out, had to tell everyone what he had inside before it was too late…

Even Alexander wasn't sure what his last words were. Whatever they were, he said them. The last thought he remembered having was regret at leaving Eliza to grieve again. It was too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: so many references this chapter, I'm not even sorry. Also a couple of notes about historical accuracy, in no particular order:
> 
> 1) it was actually misty, Burr said if not for the morning mist he would have shot him in the heart which tells me a. it was misty and b. Burr is a jerk.  
> 2) Alex was born in 1755 or 1757. I went with 19-in-1776 as per My Shot, so if the deal was made in 1802 it would expire in 1812 - 55. The duel is 1804 so instead he dies at 47 (which is why there are 47 songs including The Laurens Interlude).  
> 3) the paragraph about the Jefferson presidency is all factual events but I invented his reactions.  
> 4) yes, he announced he was going to throw away his shot.  
> 5) no one is 100% positive who shot first and what Hamilton meant to do etc so the confusion of that paragraph is my nod to that.  
> 6) no one knows what his last words were either because the man would not _shut up_


	5. Chapter 5

Alexander opened his eyes, which was concerning because he was fairly certain he was dead. He remembered the duel, remembered being shot, and he couldn’t feel any pain now, which was a very bad sign.

 

He became aware, slowly, that he was standing. That was odd. Generally, he assumed, people regaining consciousness found themselves lying down. The reversal of that fact in this scenario gave him a rather unreal sensation, as though all of this were a dream. He wished that were the case, but he was afraid it was not.

 

“Where am I?” he demanded, although he couldn’t see anyone who could answer him. He couldn’t see much of anything, in fact. His surroundings seemed covered in a vague kind of fog, shrouded-- well, he didn’t want to think about that word, not when he had a suspicion he was going to need his own shroud pretty soon. “Is anyone there?”

 

A figure stepped out of the mist. “Hello, Alexander Hamilton.” It was the demon with whom he had shook hands two years ago. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, because it didn’t look like the same person, but something told him he was right.

 

“Am I dead?” There was no sense in beating around the bush. It wasn’t as if he wanted to make small talk just now.

 

“Eight years early,” mused the demon. “Dearie me. You do have a knack for trouble, don’t you?”

 

“So I am dead.” Alexander swallowed the news quickly. It wasn’t exactly surprising, even if it was unpleasant. “What is this place? Not--”

 

“Think of it as a sort of limbo. Not upstairs, not down, not the land of the living. Whatever terms you’d like to use. This is the entrance hall, or waiting room, or something along those lines. You’re stuck here for now because you have an interesting situation on your hands. You see, you shouldn’t be dead. And yet you have to be.”

 

Alexander raised an eyebrow. “That cleared things up, thanks.”

 

“You have another eight years in your contract,” she explained. “But did you invalidate that?”

 

“How would I have done that? I am owed eight years of life with my son, as per the deal I made with you in 1802. Send me back.” His heart leaped at the idea. He could go back to Eliza and their children. He would get his time back.

 

“Ah, but you died because of your own decision, wouldn’t you say?”

 

That drew him up short. He understood the implications immediately. “So because I agreed to the duel, I may have forfeited the rest of my time on earth?”

 

The demon shrugged. “Well, that’s what the case is about.”

 

Alexander perked up. “Case?”

 

The demon eyed him. “Would you like a lawyer to represent you?”

 

He laughed. “You have lawyers here?”

 

“Many. Why not? Are lawyers exempt from death?”

 

“I just didn’t think they would still be practicing,” he said, and then turned his attention to the real priority. “Anyway, the services of whatever dead lawyers you have available will not be needed. I’m a lawyer. I’ll take my own case.”

 

He hoped he was making the right decision, but he knew he would never be able to let someone else talk for him. Especially when the stakes were this high. If he could prove that he was entitled to the rest of his deal, he could return to his life like the duel with Burr had never happened. If he failed, he would never see Eliza or Philip again.

 

But he was a good lawyer. He was confident in his ability to come out on top of the situation. Then again, hadn’t he thought the same before being shot to death?


End file.
